Alea Iacta Est
by Darkflame's Pyre
Summary: Upon the roll of a die, or on the turn of a coin, the decisions and choices we make, and the situations that we make them in can have both long-reaching and life-changing consequences. A new story-arc I'm beginning. Still movie-verse, but unrelated to my Bound Arc fics in every capacity.
1. Anticipation

**A/N: Hello everyone, it's me again. I've managed to catch up on a few things recently, so that means I've been able to find a bit more time for writing. I know that this isn't Fulcrum, (sorry for those who are awaiting an update) but that particular story demands a significant amount of time and attention at the stage it's at, and I just don't have either at the moment. I still hope to get it out within the next week and a bit though, so let's cross our fingers, hey?**

**This fic is a bit of an experiment, really, but I won't go into too much detail here. In this case, it's probably better to just explain by way of just letting you read. It's more or less another multi-chapter, but it's an (unrelated) side project to serve as a distraction when I need to distance myself a little from the happenings in **_**Fulcrum**_**.**

**One last thing before I chivvy you on your way; I just want to urge you to keep an open mind and swallow your doubts before you make any assumptions about what is going to occur, coming from what is depicted in this first chapter. I have my reasons for making the choices I have in regards to this story, and I hope that you all can forgive me, even if you perhaps don't particularly like it. :D . That sounds very ambiguous, I know and I'm sorry about that, but I promise it'll make more sense once you read. **

**Enough of my ramblings, go ahead and take a look, and if you wish, please let me know what you think.**

**Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

**Enjoy!**

It's when I'm jogging around the island, following the bare prints left by Scott earlier this morning, that I hear the sudden, faint wailing of the alert signal.

My wrist communicator simultaneously attracts my attention with a comforting buzz in my pocket. I don't wear it for exercise anymore; because I'll never forget the time it wasn't fastened properly and flew into the ocean. Dad wasn't pleased, to say the least.

I still keep it on my person though, because again, Dad isn't pleased when we're out of contact; either for call-out or emergency.

The sensation of the stridently vibrating watch against my leg feels both slightly itchy and rather annoying, so I slow to a paced walk; turning around to head back to the house and my waiting father. I pluck it from my pocket and strap it back onto my left wrist, taking in the scent of brine and hearing the parrots in the trees to my left; breaths coming in deep bursts, and my heart beating comfortably beneath my sternum.

The south beach trail is pretty short compared to the others, and easy on the legs and knees, which is a good thing, considering the way Scott's bad one seems to be acting up lately.

The sun is hot on my bare shoulders and chest, and the water bottle, slung in the bag over my torso bumps against my hip as I gain momentum, going down the hill I came up not long ago. The house is in sight now, but rather than speeding up to reach the lounge faster, I instead watch my feet, not wanting to take a tumble and have to have my brothers rescue me instead of heading out like we should be within ten minutes of the emergency call.

As I reach the paved garden area where the side of the villa 'yard' meets the hard-packed sand, I pull my t-shirt out of the back pocket of my shorts, and pull it over my head, covering the sunburn and freckles on the otherwise tanned skin, and replacing my cap in the same smooth movement.

Dad doesn't mind us wearing nothing on our top halves while we're out in the sun or on the pool deck, but in the house he much prefers us wear what he terms 'proper' clothing. I blame Grandma for that one, Granddad couldn't have cared less!

I almost run into Scott as I jog lightly up the side steps. He's coming from the direction of the kitchen, his hair mussed and limping a little, but otherwise retaining his sense of balance; enough to grab me before I tip ass over tea-kettle anyway.

"Hey, Virge," My older brother smirks. "Try not to trip over from exhaustion just yet, okay? At least wait until after the rescue, and then Dad can ground your sorry ass for being reckless and wearing yourself out."

I snort; a half-grin on my own face to match Scott's teasing one. So, he's in a weird mood today...

"What? So you can go and snatch my serving of Onaha's trifle? In your dreams, Scott!"

That and I know something I can use against him if he dares try!

The two of us have been moving towards the lounge while we're talking, Scott's hand set companionably on my right shoulder. I'm still hiding my sniggers as we round the corner at half-jog, and I know that once all of us have arrived we'll be all business. In the meantime, however, I can have a bit of amusement.

"Hey, Johnny!" I crow, as we turn the corner to see my second brother sitting at Dad's desk; Command and Control in motion, a loud beeping coming from the panels in front of him.

He's down from 'Five while Brains and Fermat are up there for the Easter break, and it's a good thing because it means that all of us will be together for Scott's twenty-sixth birthday, coming next week. He looks up and grins at me, his tortoise-shell glasses frames sliding down his nose, and pale blonde hair curling beneath the damp heat of the day. He looks tired, but happier than he has in a while. "Hey Kid."

"Where's Dad and what's the emergency?" I'm being a bit of a moron, but oh well.

He grins, kicking back and rubbing the back of his neck. "Earthquake in Osaka, Japan. Dad was out in the garden; he's on the way back at the moment."

John frowns at me in slight concern, despite being a smart-ass and flipping the answers to my questions around. Oh, how he loves to do that… "You're looking a little roasted, you okay?"

I sigh, ignoring Scott's smug look from where he's bent over the control panel, analysing the statistics before he heads for 'One.

"Just peachy." I retort, tugging my hat further down on my head to hide my face. "I forgot the sunblock, okay? Lemme be."

You only recently get over an illness, and your siblings act like you're going to keel over at any moment. Brothers. You can't kill 'em…

Pointedly ignoring John's smirk, I look down at my watch again. What's taking the others so long? Alan, I can understand (he's slower than a flippin' snail, even when he gets a fire lit under his butt), but c'mon! Time's a wasting!

Dad arrives just as I finish rolling my eyes. He's a little out of breath from the run to get here, but already set in Commander-mode.

"What's the situation, John?"

John quirks a rueful grin beneath the tip of his chin, but responds anyway, repeating the reply he just gave me, although a bit more formally and with less banter. "Orders?" He asks, moving quickly to vacate the desk chair, but not before snatching his glass of orange juice away from the spot where Dad's coffee cups usually sit.

Dad settles into place, peering at the screen, lips tightening as he sees the information Brains has sent down. "Okay. Although 7.5 isn't really a large shaker, considering what they normally get over there, I think—" He breaks off, running his hands through his hair with a frown on his face. "Where on earth are your brothers?"

The three of us shrug, and I grin to myself again, even though Dad's going to be getting antsy soon. They're taking too long, but it's hilarious to me because they still haven't realised…

"Well," Dad says, leaning back in his chair. "This is unacceptable. You really need to go. They're going to get a piece of my mind…"

The fifteen-minute grace period that Dad gives us so we have enough time to get from wherever on the island we are to the house is nearly up, and I can tell that he's getting tetchy. He doesn't mind so badly if we call into say we're on our way, but I know that the others haven't done that yet…

That thought is cut off as the comm screen on the side computer lights up, showing Alan's face.

"I'm sorry Dad!" He yelps, the sound of pounding feet in an enclosed space and his reddened cheeks announce that he's running somewhere along a corridor, presumably the one nearest the cliff side hangar. "I was up on the peak, nearly didn't hear the siren! I'll be there soon."

Dad nods, a little less displeased by the courtesy Al's displayed. "Fast as you can, Alan. It's an earthquake, and you're part of 'Two's crew."

My youngest brother's eyes light up with delight, even through his panting and the pink in his cheeks. He's only just fifteen, and not properly a full member of the team yet, although Dad does sometimes let him sit in on missions, even if only to have someone to keep an eye on readouts and such for those of us operating the 'Birds or auxiliary equipment. It's only on the busier rescues when we need all hands on deck, but it allows him to gain a bit of experience, even if it's in a non-physical capacity.

The monitor has barely blinked out when there's the sound of sneakers screeching along hardwood, and we all turn to see the source of the disturbance.

_Uh-oh._ The grin I've worn since I've walked in abruptly turns sheepish as the new arrival jogs lightly over to the desk where Scott and I are standing.

Quiet since we walked in, not an unusual occurrence when he's considering something important, Scott looks between me and the guy in front of me and smirks in amusement. Dad glances over while conferring with Brains over the re-established link to 'Five and shakes his head in resignation, but doesn't interfere, which makes me grin.

My newly-arrived brother, however, is a little less calm about the proceedings, having jumped to admittedly correct conclusions.

"Seriously?" Virgil cries in exasperation, crossing his arms to glare heatedly at me. "That gag's so old, it's flippin' ancient! Is it really that impossible for you to want to be yourself? Just this goddamn once?" He huffs, and I can't help that my smirk re-emerges.

I try and suppress my laughter at the look on his face, pulling my cap off and rumpling my hair; revealing features that are almost a mirror image to his.

We're identical twins; me and Virgil, but with subtle differences that are only obvious in full light, when we're side by side or front-on to the viewer.

My hair has a light, natural red to the sandy brown that doesn't show up in his. It's not half as obvious as Gordon's, but enough that it makes a difference. There's also more of a green mix in my hazel eyes, but Dad says that that's only definable when my hair isn't covered. I also have a few more freckles than Virgil, but unless someone is really looking, I've found that I can usually pull off impersonating him, which I tend to do a lot, as my recent actions demonstrate.

"Nope." I answer cheerfully. "You're all far too gullible. It's so fun! Scooter actually called me 'Virge' before. Clearly he's getting too old; his eyesight's failing!"

"Oi!" John —sole glasses-wearer in our immediate family— apparently takes offence at that one, scowling at me from where he's leaning against the door to his elevator.

I'm amused to notice that though Scott looks at me, he doesn't even favour me with a withering glance for all my effort. Damn.

I go to fire off a cheeky reply to John's outraged comment, but Dad, finished with his conversation, scans the room again.

"Enough, Kent. We're wasting time. You're all on this one; barring any complaints or injuries you've not seen fit to mention. Get set boys, it's going to be a rescue and recovery both..."

Dad frowns again, apparently coming out one short in his count of six sons.

He sighs. "Did anyone check if Gordon's on his way? He might not be up to going on the mission proper, but I'm still pretty sure he'll want to know what's going on."

"Don't worry, Dad." A new voice announces from the door behind us. "I heard, I'm here, and with your permission, I'm perfectly set to go."

My gaze falls with concern on Gordon, scanning him with my eyes to ensure that he's actually telling the truth.

He's always very diligent and sensible about knowing how much he can handle, but at the same time, the rest of us double-check to make sure.

What with everything he deals with on a day-to-day basis, as much as Virgil and I can sympathise to an extent, Gordon at times has a tendency to put himself way too much to the test, though never on rescues. It's just a habit that none of us can shake. We're just a clan of worriers, the lot of us.

Beneath the scrutiny of five pairs of eyes (six if you count Brains on the comm screen), Gordon stands as tall as he can on the ring crutches he is leaning on. His legs, badly weakened from the accident three and a half years ago that robbed him of his full mobility, are flat and firm on the floor, none of the shakiness that is often present in the limbs showing in his stance, even the right one, which is the most unsteady out of the two.

My brother's lips firm in confidence in his abilities; the promise to step back if he needs to shining steadfastly in his green eyes, and Dad nods, giving his permission for Gordon to take part in another mission.

People might well think it's an idiot's decision to allow Gordon to be a team member, but even with his limited role, in deference to his obviously impaired ability to operate in certain situations, Gordon is an indispensable part of our family's organisation.

Now that that's settled, I feel the anticipation of a new challenge spreading a euphoric grin across my face.

It's time to get this party started.

**A/N: Okay. Now I've gone and got the important stuff out of the way, I know what you're thinking! I will again say that I have my reasons for what I've done here, and I promise that I'm not being stupid and **_**have**_** thought the reasons why Gordon's still an operative through! I'll welcome theories on why you think it's a good idea or not, but at the same time, I won't appreciate if you blast me just because you don't like it. Okay? *Smiles***

**Saying that, I am eagerly awaiting reviews on what you all think about this little idea of mine. I really hope you enjoyed it, and even if you don't decide to leave a review, please know that I appreciate you taking a look anyway.**

**Cheers.**

**- Pyre. Xx**


	2. Preparation

**A/N: Hi all. Yeah, I know, still stuck on this fic. Kent Tracy has well and truly gotten comfortable in my brain.**

**I am still working on my other two WIPs, around Uni and work, but I hope that now I've got this chapter up, I'll be left alone to do the others! Dratted OCs never know when to quit! :D**

**Thanks for all the brilliant reviews, I really appreciate them, considering how different this 'verse is proving to be. It's really heartening to know that everyone is so open to this, considering how there are so many other OC fics out there.**

**I've had a query as to why I've named our dear protagonist the way I have, and it's because I didn't think Donald or Deke Slayton Tracy sounded right when I visualised his character in my head. Kent is Deke Slayton's middle name, and as his fellow Mercury Seven Astronauts, Malcolm Carpenter and Leroy Cooper both went by their second names, it's not entirely all that out of left-field, especially when it comes to how our Scott and Gordon were named by Jeff.**

**I also have to give my sincerest apologies to my dear friend, LexietFive, because I went and forgot to acknowledge all the assistance she's been giving me with the development of this story! The majority of the reason why this fic is coming together so well is due to all the help she's given me these past few months. When I posted **_**An Evening Photograph**_** last June, Lexie showed massive interest, and through all the discussions the two of us have had, I've been able to form this story. She continually has new questions and suggestions for me, and I have to say that Kent would never have made it to the page like this if not for her. My hugs hun!**

**Some more tidbits and plot development here as we move into the story a little more. Probably raises more questions than it solves as well, but enjoy the new chapter everyone!**

**Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

_Kent_

Now that little detail's been settled, Dad snaps into decision-mode.

"Alright. Scott, you and Kent are in 'One. Get going and contact Brains for coordinates and updated data… Virgil; you, John, Gordon and Alan are in 'Two. You'll need the Mole and the Domo, most likely..."

As Dad goes on explaining and directing, I'm admittedly rather surprised to hear that I'm co-piloting for Scott. That particular assignment usually goes to John when he's dirt-side, but I mentally shrug my shoulders and follow my oldest brother anyway.

Due to his preoccupation with the others, I think I've gotten away with escaping from Dad's inevitable question, but then I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes as I step into my elevator, nodding in affirmation just the same.

I might be twenty-one years old, and should well and truly be able to tell if I'm fit for duty, but the fact that Dad still asks me if I'm alright to go on a rescue, even after all this time and with all the measures set in place, is a testament to the fact that I'm still one of his sons, and he worries; about all of us.

Pressing the coded keypad on the inside of the elevator door so it can close and power up, I see Alan finally sprint into the room, and then watch Gordon lift a hand from one of his crutches to grab his shoulder, preventing him from falling over from breathlessness.

I grin, and nod again to Dad in understanding, before the capsule beeps to warn me of the imminent drop. I raise my eyes and brace myself as I feel the mechanism release, _before_ I lose my breakfast.

I'd mentioned before that I've been ill recently, and that was why two of my older brothers had been eyeing me so closely when I walked in. It's not an unreasonable reaction, considering.

Having undergone three major surgeries within the first thirty-six months of my life, and then looking forward to having to be on medications for the rest of it certainly complicated things when I was growing up. The added fact that I couldn't play any sort of sport like my siblings, and could never go a single winter without being ill with something, sort of made me the main focus for smother-henning, at least up until Gordon had his accident.

I'm just thankful that I'm able to do what I do, and to the extent that I can.

The whirring sound that the capsule emits when in operation has slowed now, and I lower my eyes from the focus point on the ceiling, and push away from the contemplation of my health situation, to key open the door and move along the corridor that leads to Thunderbird One's silo.

Each of our elevators are set on different levels that lead to each hangar; the lasered-smooth passages that lead deep into the extinct volcano are lit with solar-powered lights and comm-pads every fifty feet to aid in an emergency. One's hangar is set more towards the side of Laharu's base, due to the proximity to the swimming pool launch-pad, so there's less of a walk for Scott and his co-pilot than there is for the occupants of 'Two, who have to trek more towards the left and interior of the island mountain to get to their destination.

Just before the tunnel splits off towards the access run that leads to the lower levels of the silo system, I duck into the supply closet to fetch the duffel that contains all the paraphernalia I need for each rescue.

I open the bag as I break into a swift jog to the doors of a second elevator, double-checking that the most important part of my equipment is still there on the way up, before keying in the entry code that allows me to step inside the supersonic 'Bird.

Scott, having gone across the access gantry from the level directly below his elevator, is both in the cockpit and dressed in his uniform when I arrive; beginning to key in the setting for the pre-launch sequence before calling in for the follow-up information from Brains.

I glance at my brother in incredulity as I move down the back of the small room, so I can get changed myself; amazed and simultaneously annoyed that he's gotten dressed so quickly, despite the fact that it's SOP that it gets done as quickly as possible.

Damn having to go to that supply closet anyway. I still need to ask Dad for a better method of getting my gear, but I'm always bloody tired after a rescue, and keep forgetting. Perhaps having Brains make a duplicate might be a better idea…

Scott has obviously read what's going through my head, or at least the first part, because his voice is amused and smart-alecky as I pull the door to the tiny locker room closed and start stripping down to my shorts. I'm trying to pull my boots on at the same time, which makes both tasks difficult.

This is a job and a half when you're in a hurry…

"I might have longer legs and a shorter distance to go than you, KT," my brother calls back, a grin evident in his voice, even over the friendly chirping of the console. "…but you need to get a fire under your ass. Opening your mouth about detours isn't gonna help your case either! Even Al could run faster than you!"

"Oh, yeah?" I snark gleefully back. "I'd beat you any day in a race, Old Man!"

_Whoops._ I look down at my midriff and realise that I've picked my discarded exercise wear off the ground, but gone and forgotten the vest that goes beneath the uniform jumpsuit. Double damn.

"Fine. You, me and the beach, at five tomorrow. Then we'll see who's slower than Alan!"" Scott says, and I can hear him seating himself in the pilot seat, the gimbals creaking slightly as his weight settles.

Time to hurry up then.

Dropping my clothes on the floor again, I hurriedly unzip the heavy flight suit, before shrugging the shoulders down to pull on the reasonably light-weight, Kevlar-like vest.

I'm still trying to do up the heavy runner again, even as I'm sprinting out of the tiny cubicle to get to my seat so Scott can launch. I've forgotten to move my clothes into my locker, again, but I have closed the door so there's no danger of anyone getting hit by sweaty, flying projectiles.

"You're on." I tell him, finally getting the zip done up, and my hair pushed out of my eyes. "We'll see who's the best out of you and me, Big Brother."

His knee and my already-rubbing, blasted itchy sunburn notwithstanding.

Pulling the wireless earpiece from the small compartment in front of the co-pilot's seat, I push it into and around the shell of my right ear, before seating myself in the chair and fastening the full-torso restraints, the comfortable memory-foam-esque padding moulding instantly to my body.

He nods absently as the chirruping turns into an almighty hum, growing louder as the conveyor system gets to the end of the task of moving Thunderbird One beneath the swimming pool. Scott codes in the activation protocol for the detection shields, before calling in to Command and Control.

"Thunderbird One to Base, requesting clearance for launch."

Dad's voice comes immediately over the link; clear, strong and authoritative.

"Permission granted, 'One. 'Two will be right behind you. Good luck boys, and Godspeed."

Without any further ado more than Scott flipping off the comm-switch, an earth shaking, teeth-rattling roar starts up beneath us as Thunderbird One's engines fire into life. The alarm that signals the pool sliding back comes through the speaker to wail faintly in our ears, and I clench my jaw at the way it sets my teeth on edge. Even after all this time it still drives me mad.

Sunlight floods the silo and the cockpit; the windshield darkening automatically against the glare. My hands dance over the familiar console as I activate the blast-covers over the 'shield, and then time just seems to stand still for one, exhilarating split-second, before the reconnaissance 'Bird takes off.

I close my eyes in elation, even as I'm pushed back into the seat; my heart fluttering in my chest faster than the wings of a bird. My hands tremble as they're pressed into my lap, and my breath catches in my chest as the g forces take hold for the short period it takes us to reach fifty thousand feet.

The pressure eases off, and even though I feel perfectly fine as my eyes and fingers come to rest on my console again, I see Scott still eyeing my out of the corner of my eye.

Incorrigible, my oldest brother, and neurotic too…This happens all the time.

"I'm good Scott." I sigh a little resignedly. "Don't stress. You know that Dad wouldn't let me come if he even slightly doubted that Brains' creation works properly."

My brother's mouth twitches into a wry smile, but he lets the matter drop.

He knows I'm right, but I don't really blame him for worrying. He behaves this way every time I ride in 'One, and I've just learned to go with the flow, rather than make an issue out of it. It's only a response born out of being the older brother, and I understand completely, what with Gordon and his issues.

Dad wouldn't have even considered allowing me to be a part of IR if not for Brains' assurance and my father's own confidence in our scientist-cum-doctor-cum-engineer's abilities.

It's thanks to Brains that I'm able to be an operative at all.

My father was initially extremely forceful in his decision to not even think about offering me the chance to be an active operative, back when we were still in the planning stage. His original intention for me was to man the desk while he and my brothers went out to rescues, but then Brains —without even having to be asked, bless him— proposed the idea of the electromagnetically-shielded, charged vest to us both, and he began to seriously consider the idea. I was elated, for even though I had not ever expected to be able to fully take part in International Rescue like my brothers, I had still wished and dreamed anyway, for things to be different.

Initially designed for my brothers and father to wear beneath our uniforms to shield against injury in the field, Brains adapted one especially to prevent my heart muscle from giving out if I'm put under too much stress.

It's not a cure-all for the condition I have, at all; as suppressing and controlling the electric pulses in my thrice-repaired heart could potentially cause damage if I wear it for more than ten hours at a time, but it's enough that I can do the job I've undertaken properly. It puts out spikes of low-level electricity to counteract any change in chemicals in my blood, and stops my heart from tipping me into one of my episodes of weak dizziness and fainting. As of yet, nothing has ever occurred on a mission for my father to withdraw his permission, although there are days where I have to step back and stay at Base when my brothers get called out. Those occasions are far from being a fun experience.

My father and I were both very much in agreement on that particular point when he and I sat down to discuss my involvement in the organisation, after the presentation of that then-tentative proposition. It was the same sort of conversation that I'd had later on with Gordon, and he with Dad, when it became clear that my younger brother was never going to fully recover from his injuries.

I'm not a fully active team member because of my illness; the marvellous invention doesn't allow me to be able to take tours of duty on board 'Five or ride crew for Thunderbird Three either, but it's given me enough freedom that I'm allowed to man Command and Control, and even 'Two, or one of the auxiliary vehicles when Virgil and Scott are needed elsewhere on rescues. But despite all of that, my ability to participate to the extent I do is more than I would have ever had if I didn't have that spectacular bit of Brains' ingenuity. It's really just amazing what that guy comes up with, and that's a grand understatement!

The panel beneath my fingers beeps to alert me that Scott has levelled us out to horizontal flight. I look at the route tracer in the corner of my view-screen, and I see that we're streaking high above the north coast of Western Australia. We'll be in Japan within another thirteen point three minutes, according to the system's calculations.

While I've been musing, Scott has called up to Thunderbird Five, and I can see the face of Brains' young son; thirteen-year-old Fermat, explaining the situation to my oldest brother, while I can see Brains on the left-hand side of the screen clearly running scans of some description. He's calling figures in his stuttered voice over to Fermat, who is in turn relaying them to us, between site updates.

Realising that they're our coordinates for the disaster zone, I swiftly key in the long, alphanumeric protocol that approves them as logical data, even as Scott types in the clustered points themselves.

A beeping comes from the earpiece I'm wearing, along with the familiar voice of a brother, and I pull the attached microphone around to my mouth while keying in the code to accept the connection.

"Reading you strength five, 'Two." I reply. "What's your ETA?"

"Behind you by 50.43 minutes, Thunderbird One." My twin replies crisply, no sign of the annoyance he'd felt with me earlier evident in his voice. "ETA to the danger zone is 60.12 minutes from… Mark."

"FAB, Thunderbird Two" I affirm, just as professional as I watch Scott close off the link to the station. "See you at the Danger Zone."

"FAB, Thunderbird One." Virgil says, and there is an audible click as the line between the two crafts disconnect.

"Virgil is about five by ten minutes behind us, Scott," I tell my brother, as he allows Thunderbird One to make the change over to autopilot, freeing him to consider the logistics and related 'politics' pertaining to the rescue, as I consider the maps and blueprints. "So, what am I going to get you to do as my month-long slave when I win our race, Scotty-boy?" I grin. "Something like… I dunno. Clean my room? I got lots of dirty laundry, ya know…" I let him think that's what he'll be doing, but I know better…

We're on a job, but not yet at the danger zone, so I can still act like a dork if I feel like it. I see it as my duty of sorts, to keep Big Brother from getting too uptight and stressed, as he always has a tendency to do when we're on call.

Judging by the half-smirk I get as I wait for him to finish what he's considering, it's working.

I keep my eyes on my screen as I wait for his answer; my brain raising the mostly-flat displays into a holographic projection that whirls around in my vision in bright, pastel colour. Much like Virgil, I have a creative disposition, but while my twin's 'sight' includes sound, print and colour bouncing off the surface of the air when he absorbs it, mine only relates to the type and structure of something either written, printed, or painted. It gives me the ability to alter images in my brain to see around and through them, just like they've been built right in front of me.

Drives me mad on occasion, and makes me right bad tempered because of it too.

While I've got the aesthetic and visual perspective that comes with the possession of Synaesthesia, I don't have any ability with mathematics or scientific numeration to go with it, so I'm in all actuality missing half the pieces to the puzzle, needing someone else to interpret the technical parts of what I'm seeing.

At least Thunderbird One's software isn't so advanced that it doesn't expect me to instantly understand how we get from A to B, as half the time my job at Mobile Control involves plotting out the courses to get my brothers to where the victims are.

I scan the topographical and surface interior scans of the area affected by the quake, provided by the images taken from Brains not long ago. Through the superficial details like the depth and the stability markers to denote the composition and thickness of the terrain, I can see that there is something else there that is more alarming than the possibility of aftershocks and additional quakes.

Something much more worrying…

Alarm rises in my throat at what I just might be seeing here, and I swallow wetly, both trying to push it down, and moisten my mouth so I can speak.

"Uh, Scott…" I interrupt my brother in his reply as I lean in closer to the map; brushing the touch-screen with the pad of my finger to zoom in on the areas I've so quickly spotted. We might have ourselves a bit of a problem…"

**A/N: So that's that. ****Please let me know any of you spot errors at all, whether it be in technical, spelling/grammar or even 'isms', because I will learn from no mistakes if I'm not first told of them! Thanks all for reading, and I hope that you stick with me, because things are going to get a little more interesting for our boys…**

**-Pyre. Xx**


	3. Decision

**Hi all. Sorry for the huge break in updating this, along with my other fics; busy time of year for me at Uni. Thanks for your patience. :) Thanks for the lovely reviews as always, hope this chapter meets your expectations.**

**A quick note just before you all jump in; in the interest of mixing things up a bit, and getting a different perspective on the 'inclusion' of an extra brother, I've decided to alternate POVs between Virgil and Kent respectively. The order from this chapter onwards will go two chapters for each twin, and then it'll swap again. All current chapters are now labelled with the relevant character, to prevent confusion, as well will be the ones that follow.**

**And lastly, one small error I made in the first chapter; the earthquake the boys have been sent out to is a 7.5 magnitude, but I somehow missed that typo when I did my pre-post edit. Please take that into account as you continue to read. **

**Enjoy all. **

**Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

_Virgil_

Even as I get clearance to launch Thunderbird Two from Dad, I'm still fuming at the idiocy of my two-minutes-younger brother. We might very well be twins, and while in a lot of aspects, we're very alike (aside from looks, obviously) it sometimes seems that Kent just lives to drive me mad.

I'm simultaneously amazed at the fact that no-one realised that he wasn't me, I mean, we're almost entirely identical, but for the way we move. I might have done the preliminary classes to the dancing that Kent continued all through our teens, but I don't have any of his grace or elegance that came as a result of that, him having at least ten years' worth more experience on me. They're very blind at times to things that are right in front of their faces.

Doesn't mean I love them any less, of course, but it's still damn-right irritating when they obviously can't be bothered considering it. Probably petty of me to worry about it so much, but it's just a pain when your brother can't seem to want to be himself for once.

Scott though, I think, always realises that Kent's just joking around not long after he discovers the prank's existence, but for whatever reason, in his weird and slightly warped sense of humour, he likes to see just how far my brother manages to get with his little schemes.

I sigh, pushing the annoyance to the back of my mind. Childish grudges have no place on a rescue.

By this point, I've trundled Thunderbird Two out of the cliff-side hangar, and she is slowly moving towards the edge of the runway.

I hear the tell-tale, rapid _step-shuffle-thump _of Gordon's passage along the floor, despite the rubber mat fastened there to prevent him from slipping, and the sound sends bursts of orange light bouncing off into my peripheral vision like soap bubbles, even as my brother seats himself in the chair, his uniform slightly askew around the armpits where his sleeves get pushed up by the cuffs of his crutches.

Before I'd taught myself to more or less ignore those facets of my gift, I used to get migraines from their intensity, but, now unless I call on the extrasensory ability, I can just pretend that the refraction of sounds isn't even there. It's not_ really_ ESP, no matter what Gordon comes out with about it; more a medically-recognised condition that really irritates Kent and me a lot.

Despite the 'tests' that Gordon had to take to know he can move swiftly enough in an emergency, I always double-check to make sure that he is truly settled, in order to ensure that I won't do anything irreparable during take-off.

Unless Kent's up here with me, Gordon is almost always my co-pilot, and I know that even though he probably knows I allow that little bit of extra move-time for him to get up here from getting his jumpsuit on, he just endures it for my sake.

"Guys?" I call into the intercom system, getting a grin from Gordon as he stows his crutches into the locker beneath the control panel, there entirely for that purpose. "You set down there?"

"FAB Virgil, all set here." John's reply is as clear and close as if he's standing right at my shoulder, a rasp in his voice the only reminder of the scarring on his throat from all those years ago. I nod my head absently, even though he can't see me, ignoring the ghost of silver sparks instigated by his voice, pressing the remote command button that signals the blast shield to rise into place.

Three minutes later, and Thunderbird Two is in the air; her nose pointed in a sharp nor 'western turn, away from the island.

Kent and Scott are already shot across Western Australia, according to the radar. They'll be there long before we are, though Thunderbird Two is fairly speedy on her own, especially when compared to commercial aircraft; even a lot of fighter jets like the ones Scott used to test when he was in the 'Force.

Following my internal, step-by-step checklist, I put the call in to them in Thunderbird One. It's Kent that answers, not Scott, and I have to bite my lip to choke down my still-lingering irritation at him. _No place._ I tell myself sternly.

Afterwards, I'm so intent on flying and trying to reason with myself to ignore my stupid, overactive emotions that I haven't realised that Gordon vanished from the co-pilot's seat until I hear his return.

I go to say something to him (that he'd probably take as me ordering me around, because he'll tire himself out and then will be absolutely useless for flying or anything we need him for), but then the alert for an inter-'bird call beeps loud in my ear and I get distracted.

"Thunderbird Two, 'One. What's your status, Kent?"

"Stalling for the moment, Virgil. We've got a bit of a situation here, according to the data, and we need to have a conference. Can you get John and Al up with you and Gords? Scott's getting Dad and Brains on the horn for me."

I share a confused and concerned look with Gordon, whose ginger eyebrows go up as he shrugs at me. This is an unusual occurrence, but it does have some uncomfortably familiar vibes to it.

"Can do, Kent. What's going on?" I ask, as I gesture to Gordon to get Tracy kids Two and Six up here as soon as possible.

"Just hold on a minute, and set up your live feed for me too, Virge." Great, Kent's going all techy on me. Just what I need, another brother to go all computer-geeky. Sometimes it's like they're speaking another whole language!

"Sure." I say, ignoring my internal musings, and wait for him to initiate the three-way window, tapping the fingers of the hand not on the steering yoke on the arm of the pilot's seat in agitation. I don't like the feel to this…

There's indistinct muttering on the other end of the line, and it sounds to me like Kent is covering up his mouthpiece in order to talk to Scott. There are footsteps coming from beyond the doors, and John enters at a quick trot; the dark green of his jumpsuit piping making him look even paler than usual. Alan tags along behind him, his legs not quite long enough to keep up with John's brisk stride.

"What's going on?" Alan asks, swiping his curly hair out of his eyes, before leaning on the back of Gordon's seat and poking him in the back of the head. "What's with the vid?"

"Not sure yet." Gordon says, swatting his hand away. "Kenty's being all secretive. Wish he'd hurry up… They should be there by now."

"Hold your horses, guys." John says, just as I open my mouth to say the same. "They're obviously trying to sort things out while they're waiting for us. Just learn a bit of patience and we'll find out in a second…"

The words have barely passed his lips before the view-screen above the control panel beeps loudly, before separating into three different sections; Dad's face in the top half, with Brains in the bottom left and Kent and Scott in the right respectively.

Alan goes to blurt out something probably pretty useless, like 'what's going on', or some such, but John claps a hand over the kid's mouth, so the rest of us can get on with the business of working out whatever it is, and then get on our way to doing our job.

Scott is the one to start talking, because although Kent is a bossy-boots loudmouth jerk at times, Scott's the one in the pilot's seat, so he's in charge, no matter what it is that Kent discovered. Dad's face is taut with concern, and Kent's is pale. I know this isn't good, especially as Brains is in on this too. I glance back to my instruments, checking all is well, before honing back into the current situation.

My suspicions are confirmed as my oldest brother, still flying Thunderbird One, tells us that part of the reason the earthquake damage is both so extensive and oddly distributed (as discovered by my twin as he compared the maps to the epicentre origin), is that there are explosive devices set within the wreckage of the Osaka business district. Apparently there are both triggered and un-triggered bombs, and it's only because Kent is somewhat obsessed with ground-based warfare and military weapons that they were even discovered at all.

He reads far too much, Kent, even more than John, and because of Dad's experience in engineering and the fact that he taught Kent most of what he knows from his time in the Air Force, he's always had a fascination with how things operate. Looks like his crazy hobbies do have their uses after all.

It's clear that all four of them are worried about this, and I have to admit that I am too. I also know why Scott and Kent decided to call this conference, even as we're all still winging our way towards Japan, because who knows what might happen if we accept the risks that these unexploded munitions pose to us, as both rescuers and voluntary aid workers?

Alarm bells are ringing in my mind, bringing to mind the sporadic other man-made disasters, such as the burning of the Thompson Tower in New York City and the sabotage of a new commercial aircraft that have been cropping up for the last six months, mostly rescues that we've been called out to assist with as a result. Judging from my father and siblings' reactions, I can tell that I'm far from being the only one to have realised that these events are becoming something way more than just mere coincidence.

Dad seems to have come to the same realisation.

"Boys, I want to ask your opinions on this clearly and properly, because none of you are under any obligation to put yourself into harm's way, not when this clearly is not one of our usual, accidental rescues."

"Dad," I say, "… none of our rescues are accidental; they're all caused by something, whether it's storms, roads collapsing, mudslides or moving tectonic plates. I mean, I do understand where you're coming from, but I'd like to say that I still want to go in... There are people out there that need our help." I look him firmly in the eye.

My father looks at me levelly. "Virgil, I know that you feel strongly about this kind of thing, but this is a purposeful attack of terrorism; the intent to hurt people is there, and some of those are non-triggered explosive devices, they could go off at any moment, and any one of you could be hurt in the crossfire!" His tone is calm, but I can see the worry in his eyes despite the dangerous tasks that the six of us undertake every time we venture out in these 'Birds.

Brains clears his throat. "If-if it helps, boys… F-f-Fermat and I can keep an-an- monitor the power re-rea-levels to allow for timely noti-notifi-warning of imminent combustion. It may give an increa-increased sense of saf-comfort, at least in your father's perspective."

John has now released Alan's mouth, I realise, because he moves towards the screen in order to take part in the conversation properly, leaving Alan glaring grumpily at his back, and Gordon smirking in amusement as he observes the kid's sulking. Alan's not going to get an opinion if he doesn't stop it.

"Could we also transfer the readings to Mobile Control, Brains?" John asks. "Kent will be there, and Scott too, if he decides that he's not needed out in the wreckage, it'll give four sets of eyes on them and allow us to get both ourselves and the victims out with a bit more warning before things go 'boom'.

Despite Brains' assurance, Dad still looks fairly unsure, and I can tell that his feelings on Osaka's need to have our assistance is warring with his responsibilities of both an employer and father. I intend to give him a couple of seconds to chew that information over, but Kent has no such inclination.

He's decided that he's going to argue his case, and I have to admit that I'm rather alarmed as he says that if we come across one of the unexploded bombs, and by any chance there are no authorities available to handle the situation, either he or John can diffuse them, with their technological skills in both software creation and hacking supposedly able to stand them in good stead.

I can't help but see at least a hundred different flaws in this plan, and it's clear that Kent's not fooling Scott or Dad either.

"No." Dad says sharply. "Absolutely not. Our job is to rescue civilians Kent, not go and play hero. And I doubt that John appreciates you voting him into it either. I'm sorry to say that you're the only one who appears to want to go and play with deadly electronic processors. Get it out of your head right now, because it's not going to happen."

He flicks a glance at where I know Scott's screen would be on his comms, and I watch as Scott gives a small dip of his head, communicating his assent on the situation. Wild horses couldn't keep Scott away from needing to do his job. Dad knows that, but I know that with the rest of us, he has the ability to force us into submission with just a look. We're stubborn as mules, every one of us, but we're the younger ones, so really we're a just that little bit more manipulable. Not that if we really want something we aren't prepared to go and get it, but we do respect our father and his concerns for us.

"Boys?" Dad looks at each and every one of us. The other three nod seriously and he sighs in acceptance. "Very well then. Go. Keep me updated with twice-hourly reports, and for heaven's sakes, be careful."

There's a chirp from the console, and the thrice-split screen suddenly melts back into two, leaving Brains and us boys staring at one another through the comms link. I can understand why he's disconnected so abruptly, but at the same time, it's humbling to realise that Dad's more worried that he wants to admit. I can't say I really blame him.

Brains and John arrange to talk via the link to Thunderbird Five back in the crew area about the setting-up of the monitoring, and Alan follows him; presumably to eavesdrop and learn a little bit more about the creation of links and software (he's expressed interest in learning about building computers, for whatever reason), which leaves me and Gordon alone with my twin and Scott.

Kent is still clearly sulking about the fact that Dad was so against his idea, but all I can truthfully think is tough luck. My brother is remarkably spontaneous at times, and he doesn't even realise that he's doing it. That's not to say that he's reckless with his health, but at the same time, he's a bit stupid with rushing in and not taking the time to consider his actions.

He buries his head in the panel in front of him, more or less ignoring the rest of us.

Scott, brow furrowed as he looks carefully at the two of us, grins softly as he sees the sureness of our choice in our faces. "See you at the danger zone fellas. Safe flight."

"Sure." I say, flicking an exasperated look at Kent, who still hasn't looked up. "You too Scooter."

Gordon smirks and flips Scott a salute as an answer, before closing off the link and grinning at me widely. I fight back a grin, knowing the next move is Gordon's in the playful, comfortable routine the two of us have established, having been doing this for so long now. I roll my eyes.

"Are we there yet?"

**A/N: Thanks for reading! **

**- Pyre. Xx**


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